


It’s All In The Numbers

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accountant Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Alternate Universe - Office, Bottom Dean Winchester, COVID 19, Car Sex, Drunk Sex, Glasses, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lawyer Castiel (Supernatural), Lawyer Sam Winchester, Married Couple, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Top Sam Wesson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27099880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: @claraxbarton asked me for my thoughts onthis. Well… He looks so desperately preppy but also cute/bendable. Basically the dean version ofthe accountant!cas I wrote a while back. He's scraping by, just doing his thing without bothering nobody. Gets drunk a lot after work but eh it's the one luxury he allows himself. Gets himself a lapdance for his bday and Christmas every year and ends up so drunk and emotional that he tells the sweet thing to go back to college etc. A sweetheart. V destroyable by either a grumpy boss cas or Wesson. Maybe both. Simultaneously.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Castiel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 104





	It’s All In The Numbers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClaraxBarton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/gifts).



> "Mildly Dubious Consent" = Sam and Cas are Dean's bosses (power imbalance) + Dean is heavily drunk + we don't get to hear all of the consent talk.

‘We’re like a big family here’ means there’ll be wage theft, ridiculous amounts of gaslighting and no dental package. Dean’s worked for enough good-minded fools and communication-indoctrinated business school jerks to know that family and business shouldn’t intervene.

“Can you get this done today?”

Dean receives the papers and, after flipping through them, tells his boss, “Sure thing,” and Mr. Wesson’s face does that thing where his head remembers that his mouth should smile now but neither his mouth nor the rest of his face is truly convinced.

“Good,” he says, not ‘thank you’ or ‘great job’. Not exaggerated, and while Dean is used to more—communication, period, it’s starting to grow on him. The little nuances, if you look long enough. Once you get used to the semi-constant frown and the stark blue eyes.

Dean grants a big smile of his own. He can’t help it. “No problem, sir.”

They only need him for five hours a day, but they pay well enough that it—works, for now. Wesson had muttered something along the lines of how it’s too bad Dean doesn’t have any college education _or else_ , and Dean’s been borrowing and poring over Adam’s IT books in these newfound free hours of his days, because he’s not—dumb. Just…after mortgage and bills and gas and food for three, there’s just not much choice. Wasn’t, back then. Dean’s not sour. He can work. And he can do it well.

It’s a mild late summer. Foliage and Dean grabs his mask, his books, his keys, his phone, his thermos. The tiny bench outside, just by the park. It has become his favorite spot, now that there aren’t as many screaming kids out on the playground anymore.

It’s a good life.

~

“There.” Dean ignores the audible pop of his knee as he hefts himself to a stand. “Good as new.”

The tall one of the Wessons keeps looking at Dean like he’s about to a) murder him and b) demand proof that Dean’s not a witch.

“Just a leak,” repeats Dean, shrugs his shoulders, rolls his sleeves back down. Closes the under-sink cabinet door. “Not worth calling a plumber for s’all I’m saying.”

Dean’s boss narrows his eyes further.

“And you are positive?”

“Very positive. Sir,” adds Dean, an afterthought, and Wesson keeps standing there for another moment with his arms crossed in front of his massive chest, still, and Dean’s just about to open his mouth when he hears,

“Okay,”

and then he’s alone in the bathroom once more.

He glares after the man. His knee reminds him that he’s a dumbass. They don’t pay you for that shit.

But. Just a small leak. He can take care of a small fucking leak.

“Sam said you fixed the sink?”

“I, yeah.” Dean perks up from his screen, his numbers. “Yeah, just—it wasn’t much at all and I thought before you guys have to call someone to do it, y’know…”

Wesson takes a casual seat on the edge of Dean’s desk. The nice desk. The nice genuine wooden desk in Dean’s own little room (a nook, really) with the deep-green plants the older Wesson tends to religiously. With the expensive coffee from the even more expensive machine in Dean’s Boba Fet cup.

Dean’s bosses are handsome, and Dean has seen enough ill-fitted suits to know that what these two are parading around their law practice are small fortunes. They must have a great tailor.

The older Wesson’s wearing his marigold-yellow tie today. Subtle squares on silk, and he’s lost his jacket, seems utterly—bare in only his button-down. Light, dusky blue. He’s forgone the shave again, which translates to a no-appointments kinda day.

“Where did you learn that?”

“What, fixing pipes?”

“Yes.”

“I, well.” Dean blindly grabs for his cup, just to busy his hands, his mouth. He clears his throat. He gestures—between them. “For one, uh, around our house, it just came in handy. But I did a few gigs, friends and family, y’know. My uncle took me along sometimes, showed me the ropes. It’s no witchcraft or nothin’,” and Dean feels himself falling into a mumble, and he clears his throat again. “I’m—you can still hire a pro, of course. If I overstepped—”

Wesson interjects, “Oh, nonono,” soft and calm and raising his hand as if to calm a spooked horse. “I trust you. Sam and I, we were just—wondering.”

Dean hides most of his mouth behind his cup; can’t stop the scoff, though. “Yeah, I—got that.”

“You just didn’t seem the type.”

“Oh?”

“To get your hands dirty, I mean.”

Dean has to laugh. Says, “Sorry,” when he catches himself, puts his cup down.

Wesson’s smile is as engaged as Dean’s ever saw it. “Is that funny to you?”

“I. Well.” Dean laughs again, smoothes his cheap tie down his even cheaper short-sleeved button-down. “I’m, uh. I mean, obviously, I’m not—” Dean gestures into the rich atmosphere of the office. Scratches at his neck, after, before he can catch himself. “I’m not fancy or anything, so, you saying that—it’s a surprise.”

Wesson nods all thoughtful. “I see. You are very professional, though. Your work here, and the computer books…”

“I’m—I only keep them here to flip through after work, if I miss my bus—”

Wesson tells him, “You are fine, Dean,” and it’s the first time either of them addressed him like that, and it sticks with Dean for the rest of the day.

Weekend. His apartment, the pile of bills by the stove. Dean calls Dad, who insists he’s fine, and he calls Adam, who is with his fiancée’s family right now, sorry, can’t talk, have a good one, and Dean hangs up with a smile, even if it’s a bittersweet one.

Soup, TV. More TV. Beer.

Right swipes on Tinder. Tweens, just for fun, his ego. Dean’s not lying about his age, but he’s not getting anyone’s hopes up—he’s not Mr. Right material.

Dean’s been courting this blonde with the worst daddy issues. Sextst with her whenever she wants, whenever she sends another cute nude, craves his seasoned attention. Dean’s considered asking her out, but. He probably couldn’t live with himself, after.

More beer.

Text from Lee. Does he want to go have some beer? Duh. It’s a pandemic, though, and Dean’s broke. The first point is less embarrassing to use.

_The Leester: at my place, then?_

Dean frowns, considers.

_The Leester: we’ve got some pie left over from dinner y’know_

_You: omw_

~

“Same name. Wedding rings.” Dean shrugs, downs the rest of his current beer and blind-reaches for the next.

Lee insists, “That doesn’t have to mean anything,” and Dean gives him a look.

“Listen. I know what I know, okay?” Dean shovels another handful of peanuts into his mouth before he sets his new drink to his lips. “They’re just being real discreet about it. Can’t blame ’em.”

Lee scoffs.

“They come and leave at the same time, most days.”

“That doesn’t—”

“In the same fucking car, man,” and Lee just raises his eyebrows for that, and Dean nods. “Yeah. Told you.”

Lee finishes his current, starts with the next beer. Talks shit about how wow cool so Dean is free to bang one of the secretaries then, right?, like that even makes any sense.

Dean reminds, “I don’t shit where I eat, dude,” and Lee just scoffs instead of bringing up 2005, because he’s a good, good friend.

It’s cold out. Dean walks. Three AM—he shivers, pops the collar of his jacket to protect his bare neck. Just a few blocks. Nothing major.

~

“I’m, uh.” Dean looks at the iPhone, and he looks back up at his boss. “Sir, I’m not…”

“Just take a look,” and, “please,” and Dean cringes and picks up the several grand worth of status symbol and turns it in his hands.

Wesson sits like he usually does: on Dean’s desk. On the corner closer to Dean, though, by the window. Dean takes off his glasses to peer right, grabs his own phone to flash, and—yeah.

“It’s just, uh. Clogged, sir.”

“Clogged?”

“Yes.”

“Like a pipe?”

“Happens when you keep it in your pocket a lot. Lint and stuff.” Dean blows into the microphone slot. The phone itself looks brand new, so how in the hell did he… Well, anyway. “I don’t have the tools here, though. Just take it to a repair shop, they’ll fix it in like ten minutes.”

As Dean slides the phone back towards its owner, Wesson asks: “What tools would this require?”

Dean blinks.

“I can send Meg.”

“Oh, that’s not—”

“I don’t trust those shops and it’d be a hassle to buy a new phone just because of a minor issue like this. And we have you, so.”

Dean points out, “Sir, I am—not qualified,” and Wesson fixes him, and he has that thing where he can look like the softest teddy bear on earth and, bam, in the next second he’s—serial killer sober. Dean does his best to stay strong. He keeps his voice _kinda_ steady through that lied, “It’s gonna…void the warranty if I do that.”

“Mr. Winchester.”

“Yes.”

“What _tools_ does this procedure _require_? Or would you rather make me _go ask the Google_?”

~

Meg gives Dean the nastiest look and the plastic bag hits his desk maybe a little too enthusiastically.

He mutters, “Thank you,” but she’s already turned and left, and the threat of her ten-inch heels is audible across the entire corridor. Dean sighs. Dean gets to work.

It’s a matter of minutes. His boss is pleased.

“You are magnificent,” and for a good amount of time, Dean figures he’s talking to his phone. “Thank you,” then, and Dean looks up and Wesson is looking at _him_ , is addressing _him_ , and it’s, that’s. New.

“Uh, you’re—welcome. Sir.”

Wesson requests, “Don’t tell him I’ve been keeping you from work,” and slides a crisp twenty underneath Dean’s keyboard, and, that’s, uh, that’s just.

“Uh, thank—you?” he manages, but Wesson’s already out the door.

Oh, Lord.

~

Lee concludes, “They’ll call you to their house to clean their crapper, next,” and Dean groans, and downs another beer.

He hides behind both of his hands. “How did this—happen?”

Benny claps his back and tells him, “You’re too good for this world, brother,” and Dean groans again, louder, and decides that fuck it all, no saving this month, he needs more drinks.

Dean is an excellent drinker. He holds his liquor well and vice versa. There have been interventions (mostly fueled by his little brother) and he’s ‘quit’ a couple times, but. Aside from his birthday and Christmas lap dances at good ol’ Jude’s, it’s all the luxury he allows himself. Everybody needs _some_ kind of vice, don’t they?

His friends have long left by the time Dean emerges the bar (yeah sorry but the Vodka will do its do and disinfect him from the inside, right?). It’s drizzling and freezing and Dean’s glasses fog up instantly, and he curses into his mask and tugs the damn thing off. Walks while he does all that, nearly stumbles. “Shit.” He takes his glasses off, stuffs them into his jacket next to the mask, his phone.

The latter drops into the curb when he’s finally made it down the last steps.

“Oh, nonono, NO, are you _kidding_ me?!” and the screen is cracked, and Dean sobs (just a little), but it still turns on, so that’s a relief. Just—cracked. He sniffles. Stuffs it into the otherwise unoccupied back pocket of his jeans.

He doesn’t even notice the fucking car following him until he’s honked at and nearly pisses himself with shock.

He’s yelled, “FUCK YOU,” before they even rolled down the window all the way, and Dean sobers at lightning speed, because, oh, shit.

The tall Wesson hollers, “Yeah, I thought that was you,” and Dean fears he might _have_ pissed himself a little as the car—wait, _limousine_?—door swings open and there’s just—Wesson, suit and all, hair still cemented to his head like a work of art and he looks at Dean with that expectant expression that never fails to make Dean question every single one of his actions from the entirety of his life. “Are you coming?”

Uh. What?

Dean points at himself.

He can see Wesson’s nostrils flaring all the way from where he’s standing like a moron.

“Yes, you, Winchester. Get the fuck in, it’s goddamn freezing out here.”

Dean climbs in—to the heated seats, his boss’ company, the scent of—woah, decent whiskey.

“Here. This’ll warm you up right away.”

Dean tells him, “Thanks,” and accepts the freshly-poured glass without thinking, and he notices that the car is moving, and he didn’t even buckle up.

Where even are the seatbelts in this—thing?

“I told him you’re just drunk and don’t mean it. But we were in the area anyway, so.”

“Uh—what?” God, it’s good whiskey.

“You called him. Cas,” defines Wesson, and Dean swallows the last mouthful of his drink and nods like, oh, yeah, I sure did.

Oh, shit. Oh, _shit_.

Wesson’s eyes tighten. “How wasted _are_ you?” but is already refilling Dean’s glass, so, that’s that.

~

Fancy part of town. Clubs and bars Dean’s never heard of, would never be let into if it wasn’t for Sam, by his side, sighing, “Yeah, sorry, I know,” and slipping the grimly looking bouncer another fifty, and Dean feels weirdly—immature. His jeans (no holes, though; it’s his good pair), worn-down boots, too-thin jacket.

They enter. Sam leads the way. A secluded booth, and Dean’s stomach flips treacherously, but the sight of his other, way more friendly boss somehow helps, and Wesson’s—smiling. A huge bottle of God knows what on the table, two used glasses plus an untouched-looking one.

“Are you okay? I was worried.”

“He was walking down sixth when I found him.”

“In—Dean,” insists Wesson, shortly stopping in refilling everyone’s glass to tug on Dean’s jacket to make him sit next to him. “Aren’t you freezing? You can’t walk around like that in the middle of the night.”

Dean tries, “Uh, I’m fine,” but Wesson’s putting the back of his hand against his cheek, then, warm and, oh yeah, he feels pretty chilled in comparison, and Wesson’s eyes widen in astonishment.

Dean finds himself seated on velvet cushions, sipping from a flute of champagne that never truly seems to get a chance to be emptied entirely, cocooned in—Sam’s coat. Which probably costs more than all combined electronic devices Dean owns. Smells like it, too.

Cas keeps on muttering, “What were you thinking?” and it’s kind of adorable (even if embarrassing) to be the henned-over one for once. Cas' usually tamed hair’s gotten soft and falls into his eyes before Sam can tuck it out of the way once more, casual and ignoring his champagne in favor of the whiskey he’s apparently brought from the car.

Dean’s not comfortable enough just now to demurely ask if he might get another sip from that, too.

Dean tells him, “I’m fine,” and Cas counters, “Where are your glasses?” and Dean falters for a moment before he pats himself down. Cas helps him taking off his clammy bar-scented jacket and tugs the wool coat even tighter, after. Helps him cleaning his glasses between sips of his own drink and murmurs, “Unacceptable,” and Dean thinks he tells him, “Sorry,” and holds nice and still as a definitely-not-sober-himself Cas threads the thing back on his face.

Another pat to his cheek.

“Good as new.”

He chortles. “Thanks.”

“So, you called me.”

“Sorry.”

Cas insists, “No need,” and refills Dean’s glass. Dean might make a face because Cas asks, “Or do you prefer whiskey?” and God he’s the worst. He murmurs how _nono it’s perfectly fine thank you_ but Cas is already snapping his finger and Sam hands him the bottle, and, wow, yeah he just goes ahead and tops off the flute with whiskey, and.

Well, who the fuck is he kidding, he’s gonna finish the whole damn thing anyway.

Dean hears a distant, “Nasty,” and Cas turns towards Sam all frowny and loose and tells him, “Don’t be rude,” and Dean can’t look away from the soft dance of Sam’s fingers along the bare line of Cas’ neck. The glint of his ring, the cleanliness of his nails.

A hand on his now thickly-padded shoulder and a, “How are you feeling, Dean?” and Dean laughs a little and maybe he’s just dreaming, and maybe he should slow down on the booze. Eventually.

“Super.”

“Good,” and there’s that smile again, slightly deranged with tipsiness and Dean remembers his basic manners, somehow.

“Uh, thank you for—I mean, I don’t wanna be a burden or, invite myself. This is some grade-A stuff, thank you,” and he toasts towards Sam who Dean thinks scoffs but raises his glass in return. Dean mumbles, “You shouldn’t have,” and his glasses fog up anew.

“You are a very valuable employee. It would be a shame if you froze in a ditch and died.”

“It’s—really not that cold out.”

“My point is,” says Cas, clearly babbling and man he’s close, not that Dean minds that shit, just, it’s not like him, not polite and professional and Dean gives half a glance to Sam who just—sits this out, it seems, distanced and watchful and maybe this is a test. Could be. Lawyers are weird. “Point is, Dean, after your call, I got worried, so I said—Sam, please go pick him up, if something happens, I will not be able to live with myself. And he found you! So I can die in peace.”

Dean laughs, “You’re not dying, sir,” but Cas shushes him, pets his cheek again.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to find trustworthy employees these days, Dean? Do you?”

“I, uh.” A glance to Sam, who just glares. “Uh. Not really. No.”

“Sam didn’t trust you, but I said—look, Sam isn’t that good with people, so that’s my job. And I said: he’s a good kid, and he’s a hard worker, and that’s what we need.”

“I’m. Forty-three, sir.”

“What?”

Dean emphasizes, “I’m not a kid,” but Cas just repeats,

“Point _is_ ,” and sips more champagne. “I’m glad you’re working with us, Dean. You’re a great guy, and I’m proud to call myself your employer.”

“That’s, uh—thank you,” and Dean clinks glasses with him maybe a little too hard and wow he gets a mini heart attack at the thought of how much these glasses might cost. “Thank you, I’m—I feel the same. It’s been great. You guys are great.”

Cas’, “Thank you,” sounds so genuine that for a second, Dean forgets their hierarchy. That these men are the ones enabling him to pay for the roof over his head.

Dean forgets a lot more with how easy his boss inquires, “Have you ever considered doing escort work?” and for some lucky moments he thinks he just didn’t hear him right, and he laughs a little into his whiskey-champagne and splutters, “What?”

and Cas, who just carefully removed a piece of lint from Dean’s hair, clarifies, “We would like to offer you a sort of part-time position in that regard, and of course you can say no, but we’ll pay well and it’ll be safe, and—”

“Are you, uh. Wait. Wait—”

Sam helps, “Sex for money, basically,” and Dean blinks a few times, but somehow, this is still not—making sense.

Shocked silence.

Both of his bosses are looking at him with varying degrees of expectancy.

“I…” Dean looks back and forth between them. “I, that. Are you guys fucking serious right now?”

Sam points out, “People don’t usually ask me that.”

“You can say no, no questions asked,” reminds Cas, who’s playing with Dean’s earlobe.

“I. Jesus.”

“Let it sink in. Here,” and that’s more whiskey for Dean, and if Dean hadn’t already been hammered before he got into that car, he’d say they’re—getting him _drunk_.

“I shouldn’t decide that now,” he hears himself say, and Cas nods, and Sam has another sip of his drink. “I. I’m—Jesus. Jesus. You guys.”

The limousine is still heated, and the windows are tinted black.

Weird lights, like at Jude’s. One of them is kissing his neck.

Muttered, “Fuck,” and that might be him.

Numb hands—slipping under Cas’ shirt, Cas in his lap, working Dean’s jeans open.

Too-close, “Is this okay?” and Dean swallows and he nods, and he’s already half-hard when he feels his jeans and boxers bunching up in the back of his knees.

Slurred too-late, “Uh-huh,” and his hips jerk, thoughtless, for the dry, strong hand wrapping itself around his cock. “God. Fuck…”

Sam promises, “We don’t usually do this,” and helps Dean worming his hand into the fly of his slacks, helps Dean cupping the fucking _heft_ of him and Jesus Christ, oh, Lord, he has to stop drinking, he _has_ to.

“You’re gorgeous, Dean,” and a closed-lipped kiss on his cheek, the corner of his mouth. That amazing hand begins to stroke him tight and slow and Dean groans into Cas’ cheek, and he gladly lets him dip his tongue into his mouth, and it’s—almost not weird anymore at this point.

“We can start with weekends. Friday nights to Sunday mornings. One grand.”

“Jesus…”

Sam grips his wrist, shows him how he likes it. Dean’s overwhelmed with the limited space, with both of them on him, touching him. His last threesome’s been too many moons ago. His last—anything. Fucking social fucking distancing.

Cas gets out of his face for a second to ask, “You’re not straight, are you?” and Dean slurs, “Whu?” and shivers for Sam’s ice-cold hand getting a grip of his balls, testing, tugging, and he thinks he says, “Lord, no, what the fuck,” and Sam just chuckles against his ear and Cas kisses him again, and, God. Did they even fucking read his fucking CV?

Two hands between his legs and he’s still present enough to slur, “Did you plan this?” and Cas looks gorgeous, his wrinkles and the swoop of his lashes and the tenderness of his mouth and he pushes Dean’s t-shirt up into his pits and mumbles, “Apologies,” over Dean’s tongue, with his hand working Dean’s cock fucking _wet_.

“You’re an excellent accountant, though, don’t get us wrong. Take me out,” and Dean does that, and Sam pushes at him until he’s scooted lower with his ass hanging off the seat and Lord, Dean doesn’t think he’s been with someone of this size, but he doesn’t get much more chance to think anything with Sam pushing himself up and crowding him in and sliding the raw line of his cock right past Dean’s quickly-opened lips. Hands in Dean’s hair, the side of his face. “Don’t you dare throw up over these fucking seats.”

Cas’ distant-close voice, “Beautiful,” and more hands on Dean’s face, tracing the stretched line of his lips and Dean struggles to breathe, to swallow, and he gets a weak hand on Sam’s thigh in a silent plea to go fucking easy on Dean’s tortured fucking stomach at six AM in the fucking morning after dousing himself in drinks all night. Cas is still jerking him off; Dean hears that last zipper coming undone, the wet smack of Cas touching himself.

Dean reaches out, blindly, and finds his mark. Makes Cas push his hips forward so they’re dick to dick, until he can attempt to wrap both of them together. Too much; won’t work.

Cas’ thumb swivels across his slit. “Fuck.”

“Remember I called dibs.”

“You already have his mouth…”

“Switch?” and Dean doesn’t hear a yes, but it happened, maybe, because there’s movement and his mouth is empty for a beat. Just a beat, though.

“God, your mouth,” and Cas is not as monstrous as his assumed husband but he’s not small by any means, and he pushes deep and Dean struggles, and one of them is pinching at his nipple and Sam is between his legs and pushes his thighs apart until it kinda hurts, and Dean hears (and feels) him spitting but there’s no attention for Dean’s dick anymore.

Between Dean being irritated by the clatter of metal and the line of spit making its way past his balls and into the crack of his ass, Dean remembers for a split moment that he is in no position to be doing any of this right now.

Cas asks him, “Too tight?” before Dean’s realized there’s a cuff on his wrist of the arm Cas just helped him stretch out over his head, and he just tenses and grunts for Sam grinding his fingers down his taint, spitting again and pushing one of them up his ass, for Cas wrestling his other arm and cuffing that to the headrest as well. Well, shit.

Sam educates, “You’ll need a safeword,” before he finally dips low to swallow Dean’s dick down his throat while he’s fingering right up into Dean’s sweet spot, and Dean splutters around Cas’ dick because yeah holy fucking shit, no fucking joke, man.

He manages, “Uh—Metallica?” eventually, while Cas keeps praising him and fucking his face, buries himself right back down that throat as soon as all syllables have left Dean’s mouth.

“Okay. Okay.”

“You’ll get tested first thing on Monday,” groans Sam, now two fingers deep to the knuckles and leaving Dean’s cock almost-free from spit and throbbing, hard. Distant crinkle of plastic and snap of elastic while Dean just groans his agreement, strains his hips. More. God, all of it. “Breathe.”

Breathe why…?

Oh.

Oh, Lord, Jesus Christ.

He sobs embarrassingly loud, and he wishes Cas would just keep pounding his throat.

Doesn’t, though, so that if Dean didn’t want—this—he could tell them, could say something, anything.

Sam bottoms out with a coarse, “Fuck,” and Dean’s wrists hurt from the strain and the metal and he struggles, and Cas is holding his face and rubbing at the spit bubbling from the corner of his mouth and tells him, “Good, you’re doing so good for us,” and Dean nods, somehow, despite it all, and Sam’s hands are still cold and dry as he runs them over Dean’s stomach, his flanks, to calm him down, help him settle.

Dean is grateful to have his mouth occupied once more. Strains for it, the fucking heat and taste of his own spit, of Cas’ dick, and if he had a hand available, he’d play with his balls, too, make it real good. Would bury the other in Sam’s hair or get a hand on his own cock or hold his leg up, but they’ll use him like this, like they want, and that’s somehow—okay as well.

More than okay once Sam gets a generous hand wrapped back around the helplessly flopping weight of Dean’s cock.

Dean even feels _himself_ tensing and there’s Sam’s soft little, “Fuck,” the roll of his hips escalating into full slaps, and it kind of hurts and he somehow missed the lube coming into play but it’s too hot and too much for him to care.

“There’s so much I want to do to you,” low and safe from above him and Dean’s got his eyes closed while they pound into him on both ends. “You have no idea.” He doesn’t. Doesn’t even know if the car’s still moving. Where they are. Where they’re taking him. Fuck.

Cas pulls out to let him catch his breath, cough up some of the filth he’s built up in his throat. Slaps the filthy heft of his cock over Dean’s face, over the smeared mess of his glasses that don’t serve much of a purpose anymore at this point, and they’re bent a little from how he’s stuffed them into his pocket, back then, outside of the bar, but maybe he’ll be able to afford a new pair, soon, so. It’s probably not worth worrying about.

“So beautiful for us,” and Dean grunts, “Uh-huh,” and Sam laughs, somewhere, and Dean gets his sweat-stringy hair combed out of his eyes like he’s a sweet thing, and so he reopens his mouth like one. Gets filled and stretched and it’s good, it’s cozy and safe.

They switch again, after a while. Dean’s brain struggles under the decision whether the pain in his arms or the prominent smell of latex on Sam’s dick is more offending right now.

“Hey,” slap to his cheek, cock down his throat. “You’re not done.”

Dean gurgles. Attempts to rock down and up against Cas’ thrusts, but he’s got no leverage and Cas moves too fast, too harsh. Quick snaps of his hips that steal what little breath Dean’s got left, and Sam’s knuckles bump into his lip where he works the inches Dean literally can’t stomach right now. That secret little,

“Fuck, those fucking _glasses_ ,”

and it’s half a shock when Sam yanks out of him to finish all over his face—Dean scrunches his nose, squeezes his eyes shut. Sam gets him in the nose, in the mouth, his lashes. It’s a fucking mess and Dean remembers, oh God, the _seats_ , but he can’t be blamed for _that_ , can he?

Cas roars, picks up his speed as well. “God, oh my God,” and only when Cas stills and finishes and nobody’s touching Dean’s cock, he attempts to squirm. God, he’s close, just—

“Need something?” Sam lifts himself until he can dip his balls into Dean’s mouth. Muffles his protest like that and doesn’t even attempt to wipe at the mess on Dean’s face. “Babe, what do you think? Has he been good?”

Breathless, “So good,” and Dean can’t make much of a sound buried as he is, and part of his soul truly leaves his body when Cas, after pulling out of him for good, lowers his face into his lap and sucks Dean’s dick down his throat in one too-easy swallow.

Dean nearly comes off the seat despite it all—the cuffs, his exhaustion, Sam straddling his face.

Strict, “Suck them,” and Dean tries, he really does, but he’s coming in no time whatsoever and Cas just keeps nursing on him, doesn’t let him go until it fucking hurts and Dean’s bucking something awful.

“Adorable,” and mean pinches to Dean’s tits and he whimpers, still working his mouth as good as he can and he thinks he hears Cas laugh, delighted and dirty. Dean’s shaking so bad that if they let him out right on his doorstep, he won’t make it to the escalator, let alone into his apartment.

“We’re almost home, okay?” Dean tries to give his vocal approval. “We’ll try until tomorrow night, see if it’s something you like,” and Dean thinks, huh, try what?

“You can decide in the afternoon.”

“Mpfblblb.”

“What?”

The weight lifts and Dean’s face feels wet and the air is cold and he faintly is aware of mumbling, “I think I’m gonna pass out,” and of hearing Cas’, “That’s all right,” and the soft touch of his hand, and then…blessed unconsciousness.

And while he’ll be faintly aware that the bed he’s waking up in isn’t his, and that there’s two one source of warmth both in his front _and_ in his back, Dean won’t think much of it but just turn around and leave those things for his future self to be concerned about.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote [a sequel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27796309)!


End file.
